He was weeping. Although 'weeping' really is to small a word for the activity the kind had undertaken. Tears were cascading from his eyes. A small puddle had formed at his feet. I am not exaggerating. The king, it seemed, was intent on crying himself a river.

Life is hard. Life is beautiful. Life is difficult. Life is wonderful.

I journal for about half an hour, and by the time that's done, the business day on the East Coast has begun. The phone starts to ring, and the rest of the day is spent dealing with the business of writing. My workday is done at about 3:00.

My father leaving the family shaped who I was and how I looked at the world. By the same token, my father telling me fairy tales that he had made up shaped me profoundly, too.

Did you think that rats do not have hearts? Wrong. All living things have a heart. And the heart of any living thing can be broken.

It seems to be that way with most things. No one to do the really disagreeable jobs except oneself.

What was it like...to have someone who knew you would always return and who welcomed you with open arms?